Sacrifice
by Child of Loki
Summary: How far is one friend willing to go to save the life, or secure the happiness of another? Nell/Callen Friendship (plus)
1. Chapter 1

**Dislcaimer: I don't own **_**NCIS:LA **_**or its characters…**

**Author's Note: So, lots of random storylines/scenes involving Callen and Nell have been plaguing me lately. Here's another, which could be a stand alone (written purely for the emotional content) or could be expanded/continued (for better fleshing out the context).**

**Nell/Callen Friendship, but you could read more into it, if that works for you.**

**WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND SCENES OF MINOR VIOLENCE (NOTHING GRAPHIC)**

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It was such a classic showdown, that Nell Jones would've found it laughable if she wasn't in the midst of it.

Or not.

G Callen had slowly approached, SIG drawn, until he was ordered to stop just a few yards in front of the black SUV he'd driven out to the remotest of remote desert locales. He was wearing what Nell and Eric secretly called 'Angry Callen Face'. All business, and barely restrained fury. He was less than 30 feet away, but surprisingly she didn't feel the instinctual compulsion to run to him. Perhaps, it was because she was just so damned relieved to see him. Perhaps, it was the large hand clamped down on the back of her neck, and the Beretta that had been pointed at her skull but was now trained on the very irate federal agent shouting at the group of thugs standing in the middle of the desert.

"I'm here," Callen said. "What do you want?"

The tall, suited man of Nell Jones' party (ha, 'party!' hardly an appropriate word to describe what was in no way a good time) stepped forward a pace, and Nell caught the flicker of recognition on her would-be-rescuer's face. She found it hard to believe, after listening to hours of the asshole's lecturing and ranting about the traitor G Callen and the necessity of retribution, the nature of Honor...blah, blah, blah... that her captor had not already revealed his identity to the agent he was fixated upon, apparently choosing to anonymously negotiate this meeting for Nell's return.

_Goddamnit, Callen, what is it about you that makes all of these psychos obsess about avenging themselves upon you? How can you even keep track?_

"Lukas Braun."

"Oh, you remember me, Mr. Callen?" he asked, his tone oddly conversational compared to the rage that flared while he ranted against his nemesis, the emotion thickening his Germanic accent.

"Yes." The gun didn't waver, but she saw the muscles in Callen's jaw clench.

"Then you must also recall that there is a debt owed between us," Braun said, pacing slowly until he halted before Nell, glanced at her. She glared back, but only half-heartedly. She was pissed off, but also terrified. And the only glimmer of hope she could grasp onto was the agent standing so close yet impossibly far from her.

"How should you pay this debt, I wonder?"

Nell felt a cold spot form in her stomach. Surprisingly, despite knocking her around when she resisted, the group of thugs hadn't hurt her. They apparently weren't sadistic. But the tone in Braun's voice intimated that if he thought Callen valued her enough, that her death would repay whatever 'debt' the agent owed, then he would kill her.

"Me for her," Callen said. There was no response, and Callen seemed to realize at the same moment as Nell that his offer was a mistake, that he'd revealed she was important enough to him that he'd sacrifice himself for her. Therefore, harming her _would_ hurt him.

"So... I did capture the correct one," Braun said, grabbing Nell's chin and forcing her to look up so as to study her face. "I suppose she's pretty... in a way."

Her captor looked her straight in the eye, his expression cold and dark, unforgiving, before he turned away and ordered her death.

"Kill her."

"Wait!" Callen shouted, as she was tossed towards the man apparently designated to do the dirty job of blowing her brains out. She stumbled into him, a giant, muscular bulk covered in sweaty t-shirt. Hands like the paws of a grizzly clamped down on her shoulders and she was preparing for a fight to the death, literally, when the man in charge echoed Callen's cry to stop the execution proceedings. Her hair had fallen in a curtain in front of her face, but given a brief reprieve, she tossed her head back, clearing her vision, and _oh, god, no!_

Somehow, she broke the hold the large goon had on her, perhaps out of the pure intense ferocity of her shocked, reflexive reaction. The threat to her own life hadn't been enough, but now there was only one thought. Not a confusing, sickening combination of various emotions, the fear of death, fear of not dying immediately and suffering, thoughts of leaving those she loved behind, and regrets. Now there was just one thought, one instinct. To get to _him_.

G Callen had the most intent expression on his face, his blue eyes as bright as the sky and as fierce as the blazing sun. The sun that was glinting off the nickel-plated P226 he held tucked up under his chin, the muzzle kissing his flesh in the most sinister of embraces.

She only made it a single step before a terrific pain seared over her scalp and stopped her in her tracks. And then she was tugged backward by the hank of her hair grasped in the meaty paw of her designated executioner. She fell backward onto her ass, twisting about on the ground in a futile attempt to free herself, screaming at the man whose primary bargaining chip had somehow become to commit suicide.

"Let her go, and I'll give myself up." Callen's voice was eerily calm, and only made her cries for him to stop, to get the hell out of there, sound all the more desperate. "The other option is I pull this trigger and your Honor is never satisfied. And you have _my _word of Honor on that."

Lukas Braun was quiet as he mulled the proposition over. Callen glanced at her, briefly, but she'd been staring at him, willing him not to do any of the things he just promised, and caught the blue eyes that tore through her soul. His calm confidence settled her and she stopped shouting at him and struggling against the painful, pulling hold setting her scalp aflame.

"You turned me over to suffer the most horrific torture, yet you were following orders and I still believe you to be a man of Honor," Braun said. "We have a bargain."

"She takes my SUV, and when she's far enough away, I'll surrender to you." Callen continued to hold the gun flush to his neck. "And you _will not _take any further action against her or anyone else just to hurt me."

"I think you will find that harming your friends is not required to _hurt _you, G Callen."

Braun grinned wolfishly and Nell felt a wave of protective anger flare up. She dug her nails into the wrist of the hand that was twisted into her hair, and thrashed madly, trying to get her feet under herself for better leverage, to stand and fight. But sometimes the ground was a better place to be, and so instead she hunkered down and kicked out, striking the thug in the knee and causing it to buckle with a loud, satisfying crunch. She sprung up and ran.

This time she made it ten whole feet closer to her destination, before she was tackled to the ground by one of the smaller, but no less powerful of Braun's men. Unfortunately, she failed to put up much of a struggle, since he'd forced the air from her lungs when he knocked her bodily to the rough, baked desert topsoil. He twisted her arm behind her back and half-marched, half-hauled her back to the Bad Guys' side. She was angry, frustrated at being thwarted, aching everywhere, but still slightly satisfied to see the big man rolling about and moaning on the ground, clutching at his shattered knee.

"None of this will work, however, if you don't convince your little Ginger-Snap to cooperate," Braun said to Callen.

"Nell."

_His voice_. How could she not look into the blue eyes that sought her out? How could she not listen to the words of the man staring at her like she was the only person in the universe?

"You will take the SUV and go back to Los Angeles. That's an order."

He slowly, exaggeratedly pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the dirt a couple feet before her. She was released from the arm lock and instructed to get her 'tiny freckled ass' moving by Braun.

But she couldn't. She couldn't just leave Callen. Did he really come here alone? He couldn't have come here alone. She looked about, scanned the barren horizon for a glint of light reflecting off the scope of Kensi's sniper rifle, the merest hint of a good blind where Sam Hanna and Marty Deeks were hiding in wait. Or a shimmer in the air that denoted a small UAV watching from overhead.

But there was nothing.

There was no plan.

Or this _was_ The Plan.

"This is a stupid plan, Callen." She didn't want to leave him in hostility, but she suddenly was angry at him, for choosing her life over his own, for making her run away.

"Nell, you have to go. This is the only win we're going to get out of this."

She swallowed back her anger and fear, picked up the keys and began to walk towards the SUV. Maybe they could run toward the vehicle, together. When she reached him, she would just grab his hand and pull him along with her. She recognized the Excursion. It was from the OSP's motor pool, a tactical unit vehicle, equipped with bullet-proof glass and moderate armor plating in the doors and side panels. If they could just get to the SUV... The logical part of her brain, just as Callen already apparently concluded himself, pointed out that their survival in such a situation was an impossibility. The Bad Guys were six (well five, not counting blown knee, laying on the ground in agony, brute) strong, all armed and two equipped with assault rifles. They would be cut down quite quickly upon Lukas Braun's order. And while the best prize appeared to be to take Callen alive... in order to... to _torture _him, their deaths would be preferable to letting them escape entirely.

"Let me say goodbye to her," Callen said, a quaver in his voice that was all too sincere for Nell's breaking heart.

"Fine. Make it quick." Braun's patience was getting thin.

She paused just before him, but off to the side, so as not to block his view of his enemies. The cursed SIG never wavered from his throat. God, the man had nerves of steel.

"Go straight to Hetty." He was still giving orders, as if... as if all of this was routine. Her being jumped and kidnapped outside the supermarket, drugged and waking up in a dark place, lectured on the evils of the man she probably respected most in the entire world, dragged to the middle of the desert and ordered by the very same man to abandon him to an unimaginably cruel fate. No. This was not routine.

"Don't do this, Callen," she pleaded one last time, knowing it was futile, but needing to make the desperate attempt nonetheless. "Please."

"Be strong, Nell," he said. "Go straight to Hetty. No stopping." His maddening resolve faltered, and she saw the fear flash in the depths of his oh-so-beautiful eyes, before they became as hard as steel once more. "Don't look Back."

He stepped forward and around her, nudging her into motion with his elbow, the solidity of his back pressing against hers ever so briefly before she began to walk the final few yards to her freedom, knowing he was covering her, shielding her body as much as he could, standing between her and the enemy, even as she abandoned him.

Her emotional self must have shut down momentarily, for it was the only way she could have climbed up into the SUV, put the key into the ignition, turned the engine over, and driven away. As she drove, Nell coldly considered her options. She was now in an armored vehicle, stocked by the OSP. But they had searched it after Callen had exited, stripping it of the rather substantial arsenal stashed in the trunk and glove box. So she had no weapons except the vehicle itself. She could turn around, and run those bastards down. But she couldn't be certain that she wouldn't maim or kill Callen in the process. Not without...he'd told her not to look back.

But if there was a chance, surely she should take it.

It was generally automatic programming that she glanced into car mirrors periodically as she drove, but she had avoided them all in the maybe five or ten seconds she'd been driving through the open desert. So obviously not quite on autopilot. And now, now she _had_ to look.

She felt bile rise up fast in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down, averting her eyes quickly. But then she was drawn to look again, like a gawker mesmerized by a train crash. Only she knew the doomed passenger. The Excursion was kicking up a lot of dust despite her reluctant speed, but the cloud was unfortunately not enough to obscure the scene behind her. The group was a tight knot of men, and she could only briefly see the flash of Callen's cerulean shirt close to the ground as they shifted about the fallen figure, taking turns kicking at him.

Nell wanted to die. Wanted to go back and throw herself on the older agent, to shield him with her own smaller, frailer body. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he could suffer while she went unharmed, that she be burdened with the guilt of his pain and free of her own physical agony. But damn her, she was too fucking intelligent for her own good. She knew the best course of action was precisely as he suggested, to go get help, back up, and rescue him. But why hadn't he done that in the first place? Why hadn't the fool brought help along to save her? Did he really believe it wasn't worth the slight risk that the team would be found out and she would be killed? _What the hell was wrong with the man? _

Tears were streaming down her cheeks in a torrent so severe as to blur her vision. She swiped at them, pounded her open palms on the steering wheel in desperate, helpless rage.

Stupid, fucking _stupid_. Fucking idiotic, stupid, stupid, _stupid,_ noble man.

She swiped away even more tears.

She'd find him. She was going to get a gun, and some friends with guns and find him. And save his _stupid _ass. How dare he! How dare he sacrifice himself for her!

He wasn't going to get away with this.

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**A/N: What do you think? In some ways, I like this scene on its own. I know it raises a lot of questions as to how precisely they got here and how it will be resolved, but those are superficial aspects, I think, as opposed to the emotional content I was entirely taken by. Love me some noble self-sacrifice. And it's something I think is at the core of Callen.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I wrote this at the same time I wrote the first part, but wasn't going to post it because I sort of liked the first scene as a stand alone. That being said, after re-reading this, there are parts I undeniably like about it, and thought I might as well share it.**

**Also of note, I wrote this shortly after watching the episodes with the whole Joelle-thing. So yes, that's referenced here. (I find it interesting that it has yet to be mentioned in Season Six… well, I'm only three episodes in… and they do have a tendency to forget about the facts of their characters' personal lives… but still...)**

* * *

It had been eight hours. Eight hours and she'd seen neither hide nor hair of him. She'd forced him to eat soup, take the copious amounts of pain meds and antibiotics, updated him on the status of the team, making sure to relay the extra monotonous casework, until he'd passed out and she tucked him in, silently slipping out of her bedroom and closing the door behind her. She'd more or less successfully managed to distract herself for the past eight hours with house chores and digital paperwork, until the anxiety had built to a degree where her worry for him outweighed her desire to let him rest and heal.

Nell Jones placed her hand on the doorknob, hesitated. If he was sleeping this soundly, he obviously needed... the memory of finding G Callen, covered in blood and bruises... and... and... he needed the rest. But what if the doctors had missed something, some internal damage, and he… She opened the door, nearly sighed in relief when she saw him in her bed, still breathing. And then she frowned. Because it was obvious from even across the room that the man was alive for the disturbed slumber he suffered. Various of his muscles twitched periodically, and there was this _awful_ keening whine emanating from deep in his throat. He couldn't be in real physical agony, could he? Surely, he wouldn't still be unconscious, if his... his wounds were paining him?

He was overdue for pain meds. She turned away, as if to run and get them, stopped in her tracks as he moaned a little more loudly, the noise tearing through her heart. She turned back, froze as her brain overloaded with a thousand useless suggestions as to how to help the suffering man in her bed, _her_ bed, _her_ home. She'd brought him to her home because he was her responsibility. She wouldn't abandon him. She would never abandon him again. Never.

She moved closer, standing over him. He was in obvious emotional distress, but what could she do? There was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, but he was neither overly flushed or pale. She didn't think it was a fever. Just bad dreams. Bad memories. Nightmares. Nightmares in which he doubtless suffered alone, in the dark basement of an old farm house, being cut with a rusty paring knife... Nell herself felt suddenly very cold. And she knew what to do, what she wanted to do, _needed_ to do. Carefully, she walked around and slipped into the other side of the bed. Callen stirred, and part of her wanted him to wake, the other to stay asleep. He seemed to remain unconscious, but grew restless, his arms and legs slowly flexing and releasing, the precursor to outright thrashing. Lying on her side, she studied his face, the frown lines deeply furrowed on his forehead and around his grimacing mouth. Tentatively, she reached a hand out, trying to remember where the worst of his injuries lied (like she'd ever forget), and then settled on placing her hand lightly over his chest, just to the left of his sternum, feeling his heart beating strong beneath her palm, and sighing with relief as he instantly seemed to calm, the tension in his face and body easing away. He twitched and groaned lightly, but she didn't pull away, instead she snuggled in close to his side and gently stroked his face with her other hand. His expression softened even further until it was almost one of peaceful contentment.

She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder, his likely still very sore shoulder... It had been so badly dislocated, grotesquely twisted about as he hung there, his arms trussed above his head, his unconscious weight tugging at the torn connective tissue in his left shoulder. The sight of him, naked, bloody, bruised and mangled like that... Nell was still amazed she hadn't vomited on the spot. She shouldn't have insisted upon being there when they recovered him. She should've just figured out where he was being held, sent in the troops, and paced a trench into the floor. Because, oh, she had known it would be bad. It had taken her far too long to track down Braun and his henchmen. And she'd seen the cold fury in that psychos eyes, the violence contained therein. But she had forced herself to be on the recovery team, anyway, only the first in so many punishments she would put herself through, for abandoning G Callen. And now, now she would witness his continued suffering, wanting to comfort him, to be comforted by him and yet not able to achieve either, not wholly anyway. So she buried her face in the pillow beside his shoulder, breathing in the scent of an injured man, that of lingering hospital sterility and stale, feverish sweat. But something else, too... something uniquely _Callen_ in nature.

Nell closed her eyes, and somehow fell asleep.

Warmth. And contentment. Like being wrapped up in a cozy quilt, curled up next to the woodstove on a cold North Country winter night. She may have made an involuntary pleased sound as slumber receded and she woke to the mid-morning sun on her face and the wonderful sensation of... being held? But that wasn't right. There was no one who should, or could be holding her, cuddling her so, so nicely. It took her brain nearly half a minute to realize the hand splayed across her stomach, the arm wrapped about her chest, the breath heating the top of her head, the body pressed up against her back belonged to G Callen. He was fully spooning her, his legs curled up beneath hers, her bottom cradled against his- she needed to extricate herself from the situation immediately. But it did feel nice, if extremely awkward. She shifted slightly, testing the strength of the hold, which failed miserably as the arms tenseded and squeezed her more tightly. He must still be half asleep, which didn't seem in character for him at all, even in his physically compromised situation. In his half-aware state, he must be thinking she was... _oh, shit_. She placed her hand on his larger paw that was squeezing her shoulder gently and tried to pry it off... to no avail. Time to bite the bullet, then.

"Uh... Callen?"

He moaned lightly, in a contented sort of way. Not good. Not good at all.

But at least, he seemed to be feeling better, she had to admit.

"Morning, Nell," he said softly, and then she felt... he was nuzzling her hair! "You smell nice."

Had she given him more painkillers in the night and not remembered? He must be rather woozy. He certainly sounded doped up.

"Um, thanks," she said, and he finally released his hold on her slightly, but not enough for her to spring out of bed. Just enough to wiggle about so she was facing him. She checked his eyes for signs of an opiate daze, but they were as clear blue as ever. "You feeling better?"

"Downgraded to 'hit by a truck,' I think," he said, his voice hoarse. When was the last time he'd had anything to drink? The glass on the bedside table was empty. He'd been sleeping off the injuries for about -_what time was it? Jesus!- _sixteen hours straight now. He hadn't taken any of his meds or eaten since yesterday. She was a horrible nurse!

"Let me get you some water," she said, but he didn't let go of her immediately. She tried to sweeten the deal to buy her release. "And then I'll make you breakfast. Eggs? Toast? Bacon? Pancakes?"

"Yes, please." He smiled his stupid-charming grin at her. She _was_ glad he was feeling more himself... well, whatever strangely affectionate version of himself she was currently being exposed to. What had they _broken_ in the man?

She began to roll away from him to fall out of bed (her preferred method of rising in the morning), but he reached out and stopped her, with a light pained noise as he strained the damaged muscles in his arm.

"Wait... just a minute longer," he said pulling her into his warm embrace once more. She stiffened, afraid to touch him, afraid of inadvertently putting pressure on any of his many wounds, obscured from sight by the worn grey t-shirt he donned, but not even remotely out of mind.

"Um... okay," she said, hesitantly, and then because she couldn't stand it any longer, "What's up with you? Are you feeling alright?" _Foot-in-mouth, Nell. Foot-in-mouth._ "I mean, of course, you're not feeling alright. I just mean, you're acting weird?"

He gave her a much more familiar 'who me? you must be crazy' look, and then grinned at her again.

"It's been a rough week, Nell," he said. "And I'm just happy to be alive."

_Oh, ouch. Don't cry, stupid girl._

"And I'm grateful you got me out of that terrible place," he said. "Oh yeah, and rescued me from Lukas Braun's dungeon, too."

She knew he meant to make her laugh, implying that the hospitalization for nearly a week had been the worst part, but it wasn't in her. Not with the memory of his tortured body so fresh in her mind. Instead, she found herself fighting back those goddamn stupid tears that seemed to be perpetually threatening to turn torrential as of late.

"And for letting me crash in your bed," he said when she failed to respond. He expected her to play the 'it was nothing' game, the old 'we'll make fun of it to render it powerless' ploy, even though the responsibility for his suffering was the heaviest weight she'd ever born. But he wanted her to play, and so she would.

"Maybe if you had your own bed..." But she couldn't commit fully, couldn't say _then you wouldn't be sweating and probably bleeding all over mine._

"I do fine," he said. "Although, I haven't slept this much since..."

_Since you were in a medically induced coma after being shot five times by Russian mobsters. _Oh, she'd read the files on him (ones from the foster system, the various government agencies he'd worked for, even some of Hetty's personal records). She knew about him, _all_ about him. And she could imagine him playfully trying to shrug off the should've-been-lethal drive-by shooting whilst still hooked up to tubes and medical monitors, pale and gaunt and not at all his vibrant self, but merrily joking with Sam Hanna like he was trying to do with her now.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally snapping, and feeling the tears breach the dam she'd been shoring up every minute of every day since she'd left him alone in the desert with psychopaths. "This is all my fault."

"Hey, hey, hey." His hands weren't quite as rough as she'd expected them to be with all the fighting and gunplay he did. Rather, they were firm but soft against her skin as he cupped her face, a smoothly calloused thumb wiping the tears from her cheek. "It's not your fault, Nell."

"You gave yourself up for m-e." Her voice broke on a sob. How embarrassing! Especially since she couldn't turn away, couldn't bury her face in a pillow and cry like the hysterical girl she apparently was. He shouldn't have to comfort her. It was _her_ responsibility to ease _his _pain.

"They wouldn't have taken you in the first place if it wasn't for me. So don't go playing the blame game, because I'll win."

"But I should've been more careful... I..."

He pulled her into a hug, and it felt too damn nice for her to dwell on how strange it was to encounter this softer side of the generally emotionally reserved man (at least when it came to affection). Then he shushed her like a small child, rubbing her back gently when she relented and cuddled into him, burying her face against his shoulder. He smelled of the same slightly off-putting mixture of sterile hospital and stale sweat. And beneath, there was just a hint of what must be the natural musk of his body, not so sharp as much as _earthy_. Either way, it distracted her from her juvenile distress, and she crinkled her nose, chuckling quietly as she recalled how he'd greeted her earlier, how she couldn't very well return the compliment. But she also remembered how he tried to use humor to lighten the mood.

Tentatively, Nell placed her palms flat against his chest, hoping she wasn't exacerbating any sore spots as she pushed him away, saying, "No offense, Callen, but you stink."

He laughed, rolled onto his back, groaned -doubtless due to his bruised ribs, and Nell was finally free to extricate herself from her bed full of injured, oddly affectionate federal agent.

"Feel free to use the bathroom to wash up," she said. "I'll start breakfast... Bacon, eggs, toast good enough? Or I think I mentioned pancakes, too... "

"Nell, you don't have to make me-"

"Yes, I do." Perhaps a firmer tone than she had intended, for he gave her that half-surprised, half-amused look he tended to display when she put on her 'Hetty-pants' (she'd settled upon for lack of a better term) and got all commanding and stern with the agents whom she usually took orders from. "I'm the one who signed you out of the hospital. So I'm the one responsible for your well-being. And you need to eat."

And with that she turned and marched out of her bedroom, well, however much 'marching' could be done in bare feet, anyway. She listened hard as she slowly made her way down the hall to the kitchen, sighing a little bit in relief when she heard the ticking of the water in the pipes, indicating Callen had opted to follow her suggestion rather than come after her. This morning's interaction with the man was a little too abnormal for her to handle. She thought of him as a friend, but probably 90% of their conversations were work-related.

Nell attempted to push every worry out of her mind and focused on breakfast. What did she need? Bacon would take longer, so start there. Frying pan, turn the burner on, take the package of meat out of the fridge and then the worst part. It didn't normally bother her but... but...

She carefully peeled open the vacuum-sealed plastic, and then worried the edge of a piece of bacon until she was able to pinch it between her finger and thumb. Pulling slowly, she watched the machine-cut layer of meat peel away from the one beneath it, the fat sticking slightly, resisting, like a strip of flesh being torn away from a man's torso. Her stomach heaved and the bile rose up, burning her throat. Abandoning her task, she rushed over to the sink and leaned over the basin, spitting out the stomach acid that had flooded her mouth. Really, she had been functioning on borrowed time. Vomiting was inevitable after what she'd seen and it'd been a miracle she hadn't done so earlier. She stood there for a minute, bent over with her cheek pressed to the cool metal of the stainless steel sink, gasping, waiting to see if her stomach had anything more to say about the thought of Lukas Braun using a rusty little kitchen knife to cut and flay strips of skin off G Callen's torso. The agent had been so coated in blood, she wouldn't have known the specific torture that'd been applied, if it wasn't for the random piles of skin lying in heaps upon the cracked cement floor, like wet paper... only oozing partially congealed pools of blood. Her stomach heaved again, but she hadn't eaten in over twelve hours, so there hadn't been much more than the watery acid that had been regurgitated into the drain, and now it was nothing more than an unproductive spasm. She ran the faucet, making sure all the evidence of her being sick was washed away, and then rinsed her mouth thoroughly.

Nell straightened, glanced out of the corner of her eye at the open package of bacon lying on the counter a few feet to her left, like she were a wary herbivore feeling out a potential predator. But it was just bacon. Processed meat. Cleanly packaged. So far removed from any association with a living being. It wasn't bloody. It didn't even smell of blood. It was bacon. Once she put it in the pan and fried it up, it would simply be a crispy, delicious food item... especially if drowned in maple syrup. She focused on the memory of syrup-coated bacon, and warily approached the open packet of meat. One slice was lying where she'd abandoned it like a limp curly ribbon, still partially adhered to the slab. She swallowed hard, ripped it away and threw it in the hot pan where the fat instantly began to sizzle.

See. Nothing to it...

The bacon was done, and she'd set to scrambling the eggs when Callen appeared in the kitchen, startling her by saying her name. She turned to find him barefooted, sporting only a pair of jeans and several white bandages running vertically on his naked chest. He was stone-faced, sort of even grimacing when he asked her for help with his back. Did he think it some sort of failing on his part, a weakness, that he couldn't bandage the wounds on his own back? Nobody could do such a thing, stupid stubborn man, never wanting to ask anyone for help, even when he needed it most, afraid it might make him look helpless.

"Sit down," she ordered, turning the heat down on the eggs, just enough to keep them warm but hopefully not burn them. When she turned back around, somewhat to her surprise, she found that Callen had obeyed her. He'd set the supplies the hospital had given them down on the table, neatly laid out, obviously knowing Nell's fastidious nature.

Okay. She could do this. The raw bacon may have gotten the better of her, but she would not break down in front of G Callen. He shouldn't have to deal with her emotional instability, not when he'd already suffered enough of a trial because of her.

Nell steeled her stomach and then forced herself to look at the man's yet fresh wounds.

The surgeons had done a pretty nice job. The patchwork of the injured agent's back only looked vaguely Frankenstein-like. The stitching was neat, tiny. It would scar, of course. The skin would never look completely natural, but she didn't think it would be a thick grotesque mass of scar tissue in the end. It wasn't even so bad after only a couple of days. Nothing oozing or looking infected. It was clean, clinically so, and Nell wouldn't let him down. She'd make sure it stayed that way. She put on a pair of latex gloves, delicately coated the wounds with antibiotic ointment, opened the sealed, sterile bandages and covered the discolored skin and neat rows of stitching.

Carefully, with nervous fingers, she smoothed the fresh adhesive tape down, pressing gently to adhere the glue to Callen's naked skin, hoping she hadn't misaligned the bandage and stuck the tape to the raw, sensitive tissues. She pushed the anxiety away and concentrated on tending to the next swath of discolored skin graft, trying -and failing- not to think about where the donor flesh came from... there had been too much to be replaced from somewhere else on the man's disfigured body. And how did that ever make sense, anyway? Taking skin from one place on the body to cover somewhere else. If it was so vital to the person's survival, then didn't they need the skin where it was? She supposed it helped, if it was just little bits to repair cosmetic damage to the face and such. But long strips of soft human hide torn away like a banana peel... She tried to consider the technical rather than the gruesome aspects. Blood type match, obviously. Would that be enough for skin to take? Or was it like the more vital internal organs? Surely, it wasn't on par with bone marrow, needing a specific genetic match?

There. Just one more bandage to go, the series of parallel lacerations on his shoulder, deep enough to require more of the rows of neat stitching, but seeming to already have begun healing, turning a fresh baby-skin pink on the outer edges.

"All set," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. None of the gruesome evidence was left visible. Just the remnants of his old wounds marring his skin, in a way that she found more intriguing than repulsive. He was scarred because he was a survivor, a fighter, a protector. And he'd done all of those things for her not seven days ago.

"Thanks, Nell." He started to pull on a fresh t-shirt, but stopped when it bunched up over his shoulders, a wince on his face.

"Here," she said, rushing to help him by finding the hem and tugging it loose to be pulled easily down over his back.

"Thank you," he said, refusing to make direct eye contact with her. Likely because he was embarrassed, feeling like an invalid. But she didn't think of him that way, at all. Didn't he know that he was the person she respected most in the world (well, besides maybe Hetty)? That she would never see him as anything but the strong individual he was? Surely, she didn't have to tell him, for that was a confession that would discomfit the both of them, him for being praised and admired, her for possessing the sort of hero-worship usually exhibited by children under the age of ten.

She settled upon saying 'You're very welcome' and turned her attention back to the half-prepared breakfast.

He thanked her yet again when she placed a plate heaped with bacon and eggs and buttered toast before him, adding a tall glass of orange juice (she knew he liked his coffee, but in his current condition, Nell thought perhaps it would just make him far too edgy and frustrated with his debilitated state). They ate quietly for a while, sitting at the small table in her kitchen, physically very close but mentally a million miles away from each other, until finally Callen broke the silence.

"I really appreciate all of this, Nell..."

_Oh, do you? I'm not so sure. _

"...But I think it's best if I head home after I help you clean up breakfast."

"Callen, you're not okay to be on your own yet." The thought of him in pain, _alone_... her stomach was twisted in a tight knot. She put her fork down. She was no longer hungry.

"I'm fine, Nell," he said. "I'm mobile. I don't need the heavier pain killers anymore. I can take care of myself."

"But who's..." She battled the images that came flooding her mind, of the new scars his body would now sport. "Who's going to change the bandages on your back?"

"I'll figure it out." She'd known the man long enough now to see the signs, to witness it in the hardening of his expression, the slow withdrawal of his emotional self until there was only the smallest hint of his personality glimmering in his blue eyes. Yup, G Callen was about to go all 'lone wolf' on her... Normally, she didn't care when the older agent did his angsty hermit thing. But this time, it was all her fault. And she had serious doubts as to his stability, mentally and physically, especially considering how he'd gone from bizarrely cuddly upon waking to hard as stone in a little over an hour. She was afraid that in this case, being alone wouldn't aide his recuperation, but rather impede his healing. He needed someone.

"What about your girlfriend?" She asked.

He gave her a puzzled look. And he wasn't facetiously implying he had so many women he couldn't keep track. No, Nell could tell he was genuinely caught off guard by her use of the term, that he didn't think he possessed such a person in his life.

"Joelle?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what she is." His tone was revelatory, as if he hadn't thought of the woman in precisely that context before. And then his expression turned, hardened. "But she doesn't know..."

Nell watched him as he faced the somewhat unpleasant truth.

"She doesn't know who I am," he said.

"Yes, she does," Nell insisted, desperate to ease this new pain her friend was suffering, that she'd dredged up, wanting him to find the comfort he obviously needed but didn't want from Nell herself. "She knows you have a wicked sense of humor, that you like to drink beer and watch Patriots games -even though they suck-" He smiled at her. "And that you have the bluest eyes she's ever seen."

Those blue eyes widened at her, but he didn't say anything about the statement that revealed something she didn't even know she'd felt herself.

"It doesn't matter that she doesn't know what you do every day," she said, not believing a word of it, but adamantly arguing the point on behalf of the man who deserved some happiness in his life. "It doesn't matter that she doesn't know how many people you save, how much danger you put yourself in, that you're willing to sacrifice _everything_ for a friend. She doesn't need to know the reason you have trust issues is because your family was cruelly taken from you over a insane gypsy blood feud and you were passed around from home to home, government institution to government institution, agency to agency, that the only one who's ever _kept_ you is a mysterious old spy named Henrietta Lange. Joelle doesn't need to know the _why_ to see your pain, and ease it."

Callen simply stared at her, studied her intently, the surprise only slowly dissipating from his face as she argued the point she didn't even believe in with the vehemence of a lawyer before the Supreme Court.

"Have you called her?"

He shook his head, but surely it couldn't be because she'd shamed him silent with her admonitory tone?

"If she's remotely as nice as Sam says, then she's probably extremely worried about you by now." _I would be._ Unless, maybe his relationship with the woman wasn't that serious? Maybe it was nothing to go a week without hearing from one another? But still, he couldn't be left to his own devices, not in the compromised state he was in. Someone had to be there to keep an eye on the battered agent. "You should call her."

"I can't," he said, staring fixedly at her kitchen wall. She didn't consider it a particularly interesting feature of her apartment, being eggshell white and quite barren at his current eye level. The clock was several feet above where his gaze currently resided.

She hated to prod, especially knowing how very private a man he was, but _damn him_, he was rejecting any further help from her person, so she needed to find him a different source.

"Why not?"

His blue gaze finally slid to her face.

"Because I can't explain away my injuries," he said. "And even if I had a good excuse, it would raise all sorts of other questions... questions with answers I'm not cleared to give her."

"Not cleared or _not willing _to give?"

Oh, boy. She'd definitely gone to far. He grimaced, sighed.

"Can you please just take me home or call me a cab?"

"Okay. I'll take you home," Nell said. The guilt that had been twisting up her stomach and knotting the muscles in her neck and back seemed twice as heavy than it had the previous night. Why was she such a horrible friend? And why had Callen thought her life would be worth the sacrifice of his own?

It clearly wasn't.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Nell… will she feel guilty forever? Will Callen let her, or anyone else (Joelle), in? Will Nell be able to convince him to do so?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: So I honestly thought the writers might just forget about Joelle, since they aren't very good at personal-life consistency with their characters, but judging by the teasers floating about, they're bringing her back (vomit… I really dislike her, even though we've only had about two minutes of her… it's the whole concept of her, I guess). Therefore, I think this is an AU for season 6... (I am about three episodes behind, so please no spoilers!)**

* * *

Silence had reigned on the ride over to Callen's place. And it wasn't of the pleasant variety. When worked up, the older agent could be quite expressive, verbally facetious or downright mercenary with his words, but on the whole he was a reticent sort of man. And unfortunately capable of expressing his mood without a single word. The tension was so thick, Nell felt her muscles knot up in response, her molars grinding into one another and her fingers aching from gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary force. She tried to shove out the other thoughts as she focused on driving, but that never worked. Sometimes, she loved her over-active brain. Most of the time, it was more burden than boon.

She couldn't help recounting everything, every action, every touch, every word that had passed between Callen and her that morning. Over. And over. And over. And... All the while, the cause of all her stupid distress, and probably a nascent ulcer if she wasn't careful, was sitting sulkily in the passenger seat.

And to think, on different occasions she'd actually thought broody G Callen was sort of, well, _hot_. All _Mr. Rochester _Gothic melancholy and temper, only actually quite handsome, unlike the fictional character, and she'd better stop reading romance novels. In the real world, the heroes were just human people, capable of performing noble acts of self-sacrifice, but then pushing you away, shutting you out... choosing to suffer alone because apparently you weren't fucking worth it... breaking your heart.

Nell spied at him out of the corner of her eye, and then more openly studied his silent figure with quick glances. He was leaning towards the window, his eyes closed, his mouth firmly set in a grimace. And with that observation, she no longer felt that tension in the small space smothering her. Any perceived malice was entirely the conjuring of her own guilty conscience. The man wasn't mad at her. He was exhausted, likely even in pain, since the idiot had refused to take a dose of codeine with his breakfast. At least he knew better than to have refused the antibiotics.

There was a vehicle parked in the driveway, an unfamiliar silver Rav-4, which made Nell frown and slowly pass by Callen's supposedly vacant home. She'd learned her lesson all too well about being cautious, that they were in constant danger because of their work, because of who they were, who they pissed off.

Callen made a displeased noise, too faint to be called a groan.

"What?" Nell asked, looking over at him. "Are you okay?"

He sighed loudly.

"Are you a witch, Nell Jones?" he asked, his voice still weak. He grunted as he pushed himself up straight in his seat.

"What?"

"Because you chewed me out over breakfast about not calling Joelle," he said. "And here she is."

"Oh," Nell said, as she did a u-turn in the street and headed back towards the house.

"Yeah." Now he was beginning to sound more awake. Awake and cranky. "And all I wanted to do was go back to bed."

"So you _do_ have a bed?" Nell tried to deflect the older agent's bad mood with teasing. It didn't work. He gave her a stony look.

"No."

"Then why...?"

"It's just an expression."

_Well, okay, Mr. Snappy._

Nell pulled in behind what apparently was Callen's gorgeous (of course) girlfriend's car, and cut the engine. The woman turned towards the sound of the mini cooper pulling up. She'd been standing at the front door, phone in hand, likely trying to get a hold of the man now struggling to undo his seatbelt and climb out of the small vehicle. Again, Nell was neglecting her nursing duties. She hopped out of the car as quickly as possible and ran around to the passenger side in time to hastily place a supportive arm around Callen's waist. Whatever energy he'd had upon waking that morning had definitely dissipated. It was disconcerting, because Nell knew there was no way he'd lean on her so heavily (or at all) unless it was absolutely necessary. As in, his legs wouldn't support him on their own. She sidled up snug to his side, gently pulling his arm to drape over her shoulder, forcing him to use the strength of her smaller body to support him. God, how was he so heavy? He wasn't _that_ large of a man. Just significantly larger than her apparently scrawny little self. Well, it could be worse... Sam Hanna would've flattened her if she'd ever tried to support the ex-seal's weight like this.

Nell looked up into Callen's face. His eyes were closed and he was breathing with determinedly slow inhalations and exhalations.

"You okay?" Nell whispered.

He nodded... very... slowly. "Just got up too quickly. Head rush."

Nell would've argued that he'd been moving at a turtle's pace, and if he was feeling light-headed or overwhelmed from the pain, then he should take some more painkillers as soon as they got inside and then lie down... But she decided to stifle the Mother Hen rant, especially since the woman on the porch was finally approaching them with determined speed, seeming to have recovered from the initial shock of seeing them. Well, _him_, Nell supposed. The _awful_ state of the normally vital man... it was a shock even to Nell who had seen him roughed up before.

"Oh my god!" Joelle exclaimed stopping just short of the pair of struggling NCIS agents... well, she didn't know they were feds. So what did this look like to the woman, Nell wondered, as the her pretty face contorted with confusion and alarm. "What happened?! I called Sam when I hadn't heard from you and he said you'd been in an accident and that you were just released from the hospital yesterday. Are you okay?"

The sigh that Callen tactfully stifled did not go entirely undetected by Nell, who could feel the expansion and contraction of his lungs through the twitchy movement of his taxed muscles.

"He'll make a full recovery," Nell said, trying to give Joelle an amiable smile. The taller woman looked at her as if she'd just appeared suddenly out of nowhere.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have we met?" Joelle asked, not unkindly. But obviously, they hadn't met. Anyone who knew G Callen at all, knew he only had a few friends, and they were all his coworkers. But it was more polite then saying 'who the hell are you', Nell supposed.

"She's Nell," Callen said obviating the need for the younger agent to introduce herself. Joelle looked bewilderedly at her 'boyfriend', seeming to say that the little ginger bitch's name was no explanation at all. Nell had to admit, the lady had a point.

"I...uh..." Nell shifted, pretended that the burden of Callen's weight had caused her hesitation, not her inability to think of a likely cover. What story was the agent using with this woman?

"I work with Callen." She settled on the easiest, lamest explanation, and then held a silent argument with the man.

'What the hell?' his blue eyes asked.

'What the hell yourself!' she glared back. 'Like you did any better with 'She's Nell'? And why am I the one responsible for making excuses to _your_ girlfriend, anyway?'

His eyes widened... 'Really?, Nell?'

Oh, right, the severe pain...

"Should we maybe get him inside?" Joelle interrupted the most bizarre argument Nell had ever participated in.

"Yes," Nell and Callen said in unison, aloud.

The two women helped the injured man through the door, and hesitated, realizing that each of the other had not been in the house before and neither knew where to go next. Callen himself instructed them to lead him down the hall and into a small room that was obviously not the home's master bedroom. Nell had not been surprised by the 'abandoned home' decorating scheme, and recognized that the sparse little room was his chosen space by the bed roll sitting in the corner. She carefully extricated herself from supporting part of his weight to lay out his meager bedding, exchanging only a brief glance with Joelle, who seemed puzzled, if not outright shocked by the state of her lover's home., before they eased the injured man down.

Callen had his eyes closed, was breathing slowly, determinedly, obviously combating the pain. Meds. They needed to get him some painkillers. His things were still in the car.

"C'mon," she ordered Joelle, and the older woman followed her obediently through the house and out to the car. Nell Jones may not look formidable, but she'd learned from the best that physical stature did not matter. That the smallest of women could demand the most respect and attention of any person on the face of the earth. Nell had learned Henrietta Lange's lessons well. And it was practically second nature for her to fall into practical, 'getting business done' mode. She handed Joelle the 'go bag' Callen always kept at the OSP and she had snagged before checking him out of the hospital, and took up the bag of care items she'd packed up herself, wordlessly carrying them back into the house and setting to work in the kitchen.

First, she began to check the cupboards, until she found the one that contained Callen's meager supply of dishes, and took out one of the glasses, filling it with water from the tap. Then she fished out the bag of medical supplies from the reusable shopping bag full of 'sick day' kit. She placed this on the small round kitchen table, impressed that he possessed the set of table and two chairs, however simple, and began to lay out the medications, bandages and other gear. Finding the pain killers, she shook two out and handed them to Joelle with the glass of water.

"'Every six hours as needed," Nell said. "They'll make him groggy. Don't let him drive or anything."

"Um... okay," Joelle said, looking at Nell as if she were a surprisingly forceful talking doll. Realizing she'd been given a task and would receive no further information or explanation until she completed it, the woman disappeared down the hall to give the patient his medication.

Nell continued with her chores, wanting to get out of the awkward situation but not willing to leave until she was certain everything was settled. So she checked the fridge, and just as she'd suspected, it was empty. Well, there were a couple bottles of beer and a white paper box of some mysterious take-out derision, but that hardly counted as food. Nell took out the two quart-sized containers that formerly contained wanton soup but now were filled with her mother's recipe for homemade chicken noodle, and placed them in the fridge. On the counter she set the loaf of wheat bread and container of chocolate chip cookies she'd anxiety-baked the previous day while Callen was sleeping off the trauma.

She turned around to find Joelle staring at her once more, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.

_Uh-oh._

"So, you work with Callen?" the woman asked.

"Uh, yeah," Nell said. She tried her patented 'friendly, harmless girl' smile.

"In 'securities'?" _Not buying it, Joelle?_

"Yup. They need someone around the office to keep them organized," Nell said with a conspiratorial 'aren't men silly' tone. "You know, make sure they're fed, their fingernails are clean and the accounts balance out."

Finally, the older woman's posture softened, and she gave Nell a noncommittal smile. Right. Nothing threatening here. Just the company's Girl Friday, doing what she does, basically being servant to all the higher-ups.

"Do you know what happened to him?" Joelle asked, now that 'us girls are on the same side.' Nell froze.

"I think I better leave that story for him to tell," she said, having the feeling that 'he was horribly tortured after giving himself up to save me' wouldn't go over well.

"Do you think you can stay, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid and pull his stitches out or something?" Nell asked.

"Yes, of course," Joelle said, her overwhelmed look turning into a business-like one.

"Great," Nell said, putting on a great big liar's smile, which she wasn't sure why it was necessary to fake. It would be a good thing, getting away from the man who filled her with feelings of guilt and frustration. The thought of him, lying hurting on the floor in his small room in his _empty_ house... but he had Joelle... Still, there was that tight feeling in her chest, the precursor to those awful panic attacks she used to have in college. She needed to get out of there.

"Nice to meet you," Nell said, waiting only briefly to hear the returned sentiment before she made a rapid exit, only truly breathing freely when she was halfway back to her own apartment.

This was not good. Not good at all.

* * *

**A/N: Trying not to make Joelle a cliché of everything I hate… really, really am, I swear. And I know it's awful of me, but I rather see Callen continue as the loner the canon established him as than be with anyone not Nell, or Nell-like (which is impossible, since what I like about Nell possibly being with Callen is that she knows him very well at this point in the series, and is part of his daily life, his team. Not to mention how _perfectly _their personality types would fit together).**


End file.
